six feet under
by bravestofheart
Summary: Post Hell Bent. They cross paths again - she knows she shouldn't let herself get too close; and yet she does. He's trying to understand why he feels so drawn to her.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So, a little bit of context - I'm straying a little from canon (only the very end of Hell Bent; so the plot makes sense). Basically, pretend the whole diner scene didn't happen. He doesn't think he's ever seen her face before.

Titled after a Billie Eilish song (also called Six Feet Under, who'd have guessed). If you're unfamiliar, I recommend you go take a listen and a peek at the lyrics, then feel free to cry about it with me. I've got a lot of feelings about that song :P

* * *

How fitting that the end comes down to a single button, a risk, a gamble.

Clara Oswald wants to take that small contraption and fling it into the depths of a volcano; but this is right. Ending _them_ is right. Even though she can feel her heart being wrenched from her chest at the mere thought of losing him. Because she will - in one way or another.

It's him, her Doctor. She sees the anguish in his eyes and hears the defeat in his voice… and she can't even begin to imagine how that must feel, losing the memory of the person you love most, and worse, _knowing_ that those memories are slipping away and being so utterly helpless to stop it.

She finds herself facing eternity in the space between heartbeats - the gap where her pulse should have been used to sound like static, a lost connection, but now the silence is deafening, crippling. She wonders if maybe her heart has gone, withered and decayed away into nothing, because the emptiness she feels is incomparable to any pain. She fears her heart will never mend; or perhaps if it does, that'll be the day she lets go, lets her heart release and beat again.

Despite how broken she feels, she's not ready to let go yet.

—

He wakes in confusion; it's almost as if he's regenerated, and yet his face is the same, he's the same version of himself but _wrong._ There's an unsettling feeling that he can't shake, like something's missing.

But despite how much he prides his memory and brainpower (he, after all, used to boast that he had twenty seven brains), there's not even the tiniest hint of what he's lost. Just an empty, gaping void.

He doesn't remember being okay. But he doesn't think he's always felt so empty.

He travels, endlessly running like he always does, trying to cling onto who he is with every scrap of his being. _Be a doctor._ Some days it feels like a mantra, pounding through his head and his hearts. He doesn't know where he's picked it up from, but it stirs a fire within him, a drive to do good and to keep going.

One day he writes those words, scrawled over a chalk board - there's something cathartic about the sound, but there's still something wrong, like the writing on the board isn't his own. Or maybe, he wonders, maybe some forgotten part of his mind wishes it were someone else's words.

—

It takes Clara two centuries to cross paths with him again - she can't pinpoint exactly how many years have passed, the days have all begun to meld together; oh how she wishes she had a Time Lord's brain, to keep track of time when travelling through different eras and places. She doesn't sleep these days and that doesn't help the matter - every single process in her body has stopped. The closest she gets to sleep is by settling into a deep, meditative state… but she's never been much for patience and there's only so much sitting and doing nothing that she can take.

She doesn't think of him often anymore, and when she does, it's fond and bittersweet, instead of feeling like a knife twisting in her gut. Not that she's ever moved on - she's tried, multiple times, but nothing's been the same. Nobody comes anywhere near close to making her feel how he did. And _god,_ human lives feel so fleeting. She understands why he always struggled with getting close. She understands living with the burden of losing everyone.

Nothing prepares her for seeing him again, though. Ashildr's gone - it's one of those periods where her only companion has settled down briefly, accepted inevitable loss for a few decades of happiness. Clara's tried that several times… she's learned she's not good at losing people. Not that it was ever much of a surprise to her.

He's the same as she remembers, though she can see how his eyes have aged, how they're deeper and wiser, and so _lonely._ She hasn't seen that loneliness in his eyes for such a long time, and she can't help the crushing guilt she feels at that. She did that to him. Albeit with his permission… but she can see now that he's missing part of himself, just as she's lost part of herself.

She watches him as he moves to her, heart clenching as if it yearns to pound in her chest, legs dangling from her chair, swinging a little as she fidgets anxiously.

"I don't remember this planet having a 1950s Earth diner," he remarks, and she's taking in every detail she can, like the way his brows pull together and how his hands move when he talks. And she's fighting the urge to get to her feet, to close the gap between them and cling to him, seeing if her head nestles against his chest like she remembers, or to crane her head up and grasp his hair and just kiss him, until she's made up for all the time they've been apart.

"It's a new installment," Clara answers, smiling fondly, and it's taking every inch of her being to keep her emotions from spilling over, all that joy and sorrow and heartache, and _oh,_ how she's missed him. She'd thought there could be nothing worse than letting him go… but perhaps this is, having him there in front of her and being unable to tell him how she feels. Her, remembering everything, and him unaware of the depths of her love.

"Is it yours?"

"Yeah. Want to come inside, have something to drink?"

"How'd it get here?" he asks, nodding amiably and following her, and she grins.

"Magic."

She entertains his seemingly endless questions, though her answers are somewhat vague; she's trying not to get too close (though perhaps subconsciously, she knows he'll be drawn closer from curiosity). He's puzzled, exclaiming about how she's English, how her sense of dress is a few decades more modern than her diner but yet _far_ too early for her to be out of her own universe - hell, even her own _solar system._

Really, there's no one else to blame except her for the conclusion he comes to. She is travelling in a TARDIS, after all.

"You're a Time Lord!"

He's gleeful. Her nose scrunches up - but she doesn't have it in her to let him down. And it's an easier explanation than her current situation.

"I'm a _lady,_ " she corrects him, laughing softly.

And to be fair, that isn't technically a lie.


	2. Chapter 2

Clara Oswald is a complete mystery to him (oh, if only he knew that wasn't the first time she'd been one). There's a sense of comfort in her name, one of those words that he likes hearing the sound of as it rolls off his tongue. _Clara, Clara, Clara._ He marvels at her youth - there's something so fearless and carefree about her. Perhaps she is much younger than him… he didn't ask. He's not sure if it'd be rude to.

Not that he's quite sure how old he is, truthfully. He stopped keeping track millennia ago.

They don't spend long together - barely a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things, and he's suddenly finding himself standing there, leaning back against his TARDIS and watching as Clara's diner fades away. He wants to know more… there's a feeling he's grown distant from, that yearning to solve a mystery. He's gotten so used to not having anything _new_ in the universe.

She disappears from his life again (for the time being, at least), and he finds himself drawn to her like a moth drawn to a flame, desperately searching for light, for her. Oh, but that leaves him more perplexed than when he started, dragged deeper into her mystery. _Surely_ she must be a Time Lady; he's lived a long life and he's never met another species that has technology as sophisticated as a TARDIS. The alternatives - that she's using a more… _primitive_ , for lack of a better word, form of time travel - seems much less likely, considering he finds her throughout various points in time. Often in Earth, he notes. She seems to have a fondness for the planet - it's a wonder they've never met before now.

His wildest theory? That she's him. In the future, of course. But then there's the fact that her TARDIS is a diner and doesn't have the same sense of familiarity to it that his beloved blue box has. And that he doesn't think she knew who he was. Nor can he think of a reason why she'd know him but not tell him. But regardless of who she is— there's a new sense of spirit in him, a certain youthful eagerness that he'd forgotten how to feel.

—

They find each other again (or technically, she finds him through the chaos he leaves behind), on Earth this time. Clara's perched on a wall, legs dangling over the edge, swinging a little as she waits for him to return. Oh, and it is fun, watching him stop short in his tracks as he wonders where the giant, unconscious spider-like alien that he'd left here had gotten to.

"You know, you really shouldn't leave mutant alien spiders lying around, you almost gave a little old lady a heart attack."

Wild eyes lift to meet hers, lighting up. "Clara!" There's a pause, and he smirks. _Oh no._ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give you a heart attack."

"Oi! Might be little but I'm certainly not old." _Well._ She kind of is… but she's still not as old as him, she thinks.

"If you say so," he retorts, and she rolls her eyes at him in amusement.

"Anyway. I took care of your eight legged friend. Someone has to clean up your mess, after all."

"What would I do without you?" he asks lightly - but oh, that hurts her soul.

"Let's hope you never have to find out."

* * *

 **A/N:** Quick little update to tide you all over~ (I've got part of the next chapter written already so hopefully that won't be as long of a wait, haha)

I'm currently writing fic updates/short stories etc. in an attempt to complete NaNoWriMo - so feel free to hit me up with suggestions, prompts, anything you'd like to see! Or just yell at me to write, that'd also be appreciated :)


	3. Chapter 3

She invites him in, into that little diner of hers, and there's a rare, genuine smile of bemusement touching at his lips as she herds him towards a seat, putting the kettle on and settling down across from him, watching peacefully as his eyes roam the room, scanning over the walls, brows knitting together. There's a sense of familiarity to the room, like he's been here before. It's not alarming though, no - every inch of familiarity about her and this place is like some warm, little comfort, that he wants to tuck away and treasure, keep for himself.

"You've been here before," she says, breaking him out of his reverie, and his head turns, eyes pulling back into focus as his gaze meets hers.

"I have?" Oh, but he doesn't remember… perhaps it's a sign that he's lived too long. Or maybe he lost something, forgot something… he still can't place his finger on _what_.

"Yeah. Not sure how long ago," Clara answers, and he's mesmerised by the fondness in her eyes and the curve of her smile… he thinks he could feel her nostalgia if he watched long enough. "You had a guitar. No money - that never changes, I guess?" she teases, laughing. "But you played for me. I still remember the song."

"I've forgotten what it's called," he confesses, smiling ruefully. _'I forget'_ , he called it, when the name slipped from his memory, leaving barely a trace, a ghost of times passed.

"I haven't." She's still smiling, but she's sad now; he can see the loneliness in her eyes; she won't admit that though, he knows that. She'll cover her pain with a smile or some quick-witted response, just as he always does. "You forgot a lot, I think. Something happened… I think that maybe you lost memories even after you left," Clara adds. She's right, of course she is. She's right about a lot of things about him.

"Will you tell me what happened? Or what the song was called, at least?"

"I think you need to remember that for yourself," she murmurs in response, and then she's turning away, distracted by the whistle of the kettle, and he keeps quiet; she seems like the sort of person to be stubborn enough to keep things secret when she wants to.

—

Clara's in too deep, and she knows it. She yearns to tell him, to let all her words bubble up and spill over until he _understands,_ that it's _her_ he's been missing all along, that she'd search for him through time and space just to tell him how much she loves him. That it's always been him, despite how long she spent trying to deny it - to deny herself. But they've been down this road before and she knows how it ends, how it— killed her. Technically. She's not sure she can bring herself back to the end while his two hearts still beat (she likes to think that one of them beats for her, to make up for the aching silence between her lungs).

She wishes she could tell him what he means to her, how she treasures even the tiniest brush of skin, the way his fingertips seem to spark against her, small yet sharp reminders that she once had _more._ Oh, and the way he says her name… she's yet to understand how he can simultaneously build her up, yet bring her to ruins. She's hit such lows; days where she's felt so hollow and cold, and yet being with him, she's _alive._ Alive and happy, and— relapsing, back into that old, familiar addiction, that intangible but irresistible force of gravitation surrounding him.

She wishes him farewell… and then she's kissing his cheek, tender and light - and she can see how the familiarity of the gesture startles him. A familiarity he naturally, doesn't yet reciprocate. Her stomach drops, and the following second feels agonisingly slow, her gaze searching his in a desperate attempt to read him.

"See you around, yeah?" It's the best she can manage - but to her relief he nods, smiling in amusement.

"It's a big universe… and you're so tiny that running into you should be as hard as finding a needle in a haystack," he responds wryly, and her indignant huff only earns her a content chuckle from him as he disappears back into his own TARDIS.

Oh, she's a love-struck fool. So it's no surprise that the next time she reconnects with Ashildr, it takes a grand total of 2.04 seconds for her to figure things out. She's familiar with the way that loneliness hides within both of their eyes, after all.

"You've met someone." She's elated, grinning gleefully and poking around the TARDIS, on a hunt for clues. "So, tell me— who is it? Are they human? Or have you found some exotic planet with an attractive alien species?" she taunts further. "Are they here? Can I meet this mystery person?"

Clara's currently wishing the ground would just open up beneath her, or that the walls will swallow her home.

"Oh no. You _didn't._ "

 _Shit._ When did she get so good at reading her?

"Clara Oswald, what made you think _that_ was a good idea?"

"Jesus, you're not my mother." She's trying - oh, how she's trying - to keep the mood light. "Besides, it wasn't like I went looking for him. I bumped into him, completely by accident, I swear."

She's getting a look. She's also pretty sure her stomach is trying to tie itself into knots.

"Okay, maybe the second time wasn't an accident."

"You're a mess," Ashildr remarks, laughing; but Clara can see the worry haunting her expression. She doesn't blame her for that, either - she's worried as well.

"I know. But hey, don't worry. I won't get too close… he's not going to take over your room in the TARDIS, I promise."

"He better not," she laughs, but then her expression is turning solemn again. "You haven't told him, have you?"

"No. Never. He doesn't need that burden. I'm not letting things get serious, either. Just the occasional run-in from time to time, you know?"

Or at least that's what she's telling herself

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry for the delay~ man, that Christmas episode ruined me (but it also kicked my writing back into gear, so hey, how about that?)

Ashildr was a struggle to write - hope she came across okay! (A side note: I'm aware at this point in canon she's technically called 'Me', but it was feeling weird to refer to her by that name - apologies if that irks any of you)

As always, comments/feedback would be greatly appreciated 3


	4. Chapter 4

Oh, he's in too deep— but he's always loved a mystery, and she proves to be even more elusive than he could have imagined. He tracks her back (and forwards) through time, finding her timeline scattered throughout the universe, always coming so close to crossing his own haphazard path. It's like she's always been there, through everything, hovering at the periphery, just out of the corner of his eye. He finds her name weaving through the gaps in his memory, imagery of it scrawled in white on a chalkboard (he disregards that; writes it off as curiosity, obsession), and he finds her image in old photographs, a worn and tattered painting with eyes he _swears_ look just like hers. She haunts his dreams, lingers in his waking thoughts, and her words echo in his mind, such sweet, sweet taunts. He's started to notice the way she dances around his questions, always holding back, never letting him too close. And still— something in her seems to call to him, draw him in. He's not used to this vulnerability of feeling so much for someone.

They're on the distant planet of Halcya next time they meet, him interrupting her reverie with approaching footsteps, leaves rustling under foot. He's always loved it here; the air is sweet and warm, the oceans just as warm and so gentle. The whole planet is lush and tranquil, but so isolated in the universe and underpopulated that few make the trip to see it. There's hardly ever much more than a handful of time travellers passing through.

Oh, and Clara— she looks heavenly, hair shifting slightly in the breeze, touched by the golden hues of the overhead suns. Like something out of a painting. She turns, lips quirking into a smile, then pats the space beside her.

"Thought I heard a TARDIS earlier," she remarks as he settles down next to her, gazing out over the ocean. "Universe isn't that small, you stalking me or something?"

He turns to her then, eyeing her - but there's a playful smirk on her lips, corners of her eyes crinkled in fondness, and his own expression softens.

"Didn't really plan where I was going," he confesses. "Guess the TARDIS noticed I missed you."

He doesn't see the way she melts at that, how her heart pangs with yearning. There's a tension that hangs between them, and he turns away, looking out across gentle rolling waves to avoid confronting his own feelings. Some things are better left unsaid, he thinks.

Of course, he's forgotten how little he's always told her.

—

Clara's currently cursing herself for the way she can't seem to stop being pulled back to him, like a moth drawn to a flame. She knows, oh, she _knows_ that she's playing with fire, that this is downright idiotic of her. She's told herself that countless times, and yet here she is. Back at his side, unapologetically enraptured by his words, soaking in every little detail about him.

She's always been a lovestruck fool for him.

Perhaps there's something gravitational about them; she thinks that at this point, the universe agrees, nudging them back together until something breaks, until they get over themselves and give in to fate. Regardless— they continue to find their ways back to each other, timelines inexplicably woven together… and she's certainly making no effort to stop their paths from crossing. No; she's simply trying to stop herself from closing that last, little distance between them, from confessing that he's the part of her that's been missing, just as she's the hole in himself he can't seem to recreate.

Oh, how desperately she wants to give in.

"You could stick around a while," she finds herself suggesting, and inwardly she's pissed at herself; but at the same time maybe just the teensiest bit smug when he nods slightly.

"I suppose I could," he answers wryly. "Not that I'm one for _staying_ in places, I mean, what would we even do? Stay in the hotel here? You don't want to see me in a hotel, I get bored—" He's rambling, only interrupted by her bemused laugh. "What I mean to say is… sticking around isn't something I do, but I suppose I can make an exception just this once…"

"Because you've been travelling alone and you're getting tired," Clara answers softly, and he nods solemnly in response.

"How do you already know me so well?"

She shrugs. "Because I've been feeling the same."


	5. Chapter 5

They settle on adventuring, and end up taking his TARDIS, much to Clara's relief… problem of having an ageless travel companion and a very noticeably 50s diner for a spaceship, she's bound to be caught if she accidentally crosses paths with Ashildr. And she doesn't really feel like dealing with another one of those talks.

God, she feels so _alive_ again, oh how she's missed this daft old man— the way he moves around the console, hands moving wildly in a flurry of activity. He's always managed some peculiar balance between carefree, with all the time in the world and frantic, unbridled enthusiasm, and she thrives off that energy and the excitement of following him headfirst into the unknown.

She finds herself slowly slipping back into old habits with him - just as she likes pushing the limits when it comes to danger, so is she now as she edges closer to him, little by little, with every passing day. Slow enough that she tells herself it's nothing to worry about, everything's _fine._ But she's teetering into dangerous territory and deep down, she knows it.

—

"Sometimes you seem so human, Clara," he muses. She's been here for a month or so now, he thinks. He supposes she can't be as attached to her TARDIS as he is to his own; she's shown no need to return to it, after all. Then again, maybe _he's_ the one that's weird for a Time Lord… but there's still something so endearing about her. He's watched the way she marvels at everything around her, eyes always bright and wondrous. She seems so young, alive— but sometimes she speaks like she's an old soul, as weary as he is. And sometimes she knows him, better than he even knows himself. She's more expressive than him, more sincere and vulnerable than any other Time Lord he's known.

"What makes you say that?" Ah, there's that look. Indignant, eyes narrowing. He's just one step away from digging his own grave.

"No, I uh- I don't mean it in a bad way, I-" She's eyeing him even closer now, in a way that seems to say _dare you to come up with a way to dig yourself out of this mess._ "You just… seem young. Full of wonder and hope. It's something I've missed seeing."

Clara grumbles. "I guess. If you call two and a half centuries young." She pokes his side gently then, brightening up. "At least I'm not ten thousand years old."

He's scowling now, brows knitting closer together as she giggles in delight. " _Ten thousand?_ Please, Clara. I'm not that old!"

"Mm, how old are you?"

"I, ah- I've lost count."

"Mhmmmm."

"Don't give me that look!" She's still giggling. "Around four thousand."

"You sure 'bout that?"

He punches her arm playfully at that, and she practically caves into him, still giggling, face pressed against his side, and he's trying not to get all flustered; because she's as touchy as humans tend to get, and despite his age, he _still_ hasn't learned how to not overthink about what to do with his hands or how to react to people all up in his personal space like this.

Not that he minds. He thinks he'd hate this if it were anyone else, but she feels familiar and safe… no, he's more stuck on wondering if he should let his hand settle against the small of her back, or give into temptations; like finding out how soft her hair would feel if he lets his fingers brush through it. And so he does what any other Time Lord would do in his situation (he _thinks,_ at least… he's still having a mild crisis trying to figure out which one of them acts more like a Time Lord). He freezes. Hands stilled, hovering near her, and he can't seem to manage to gather up the courage to do _anything_ but stay absolutely still and just watch her, right until she startles and notices how close she is. She pulls back, those impossibly wide eyes peeking up at him, and he wants to tell her that it's okay, that he's being a helpless idiot but he can't seem to find the words.

"Sorry." She's mumbling, cheeks tinged, a soft, endearing pink.

"It's fine." Is that blunt? It feels blunt. Take two. "Don't worry about it, Clara." Then hastily added— "I didn't mind."

"Okay." She allows a small, strained smile.

"You know, it's nice to be the one not blushing for a change."

"Oi, shut up."

Something in him has eased up enough that he finds himself ruffling her hair lightly, and she's pouty and grumbly but relaxed again, much to his relief. Another tiny step forward for Time Lord; give him another thousand years and maybe he'll find the courage somewhere inside himself to take that big leap, to be open and vulnerable with her.

For now, he's content to deny himself just to avoid facing his own feelings.


	6. Chapter 6

They reach a sort of common ground— Clara's right there, just on the edge of his comfort zone, yet not in deep enough to tell herself to cut things off. She's squelching that little voice in her head that reasons with her, that she's never going to end things, that she's always going to keep pushing and pushing until _something_ breaks. She's always been like that, after all.

God, Ashildr's going to _kill_ her when she finds out about this.

He's never been one for hugs, but he seems to relax into her further as the days pass, like she's chipping away at all of his hard edges. He's soft at heart, she's always known that— but she'd never had the chance before to be close with him like this, not when they used to only see each other for a day at a time. She learns that he's warmest when he's tired, grumbly exterior melted away (unless he's provoked in some way; then the grumpiness only increases tenfold). Oh, and the day he accidentally falls asleep next to her, head drooping against her shoulder… that's something she's never seen before, something to cherish. He's never been one for admitting that he's tired, though she supposes with her lack of a need for sleep, it's finally caught up to him. She stays close for hours, until it starts to get cold, gently shifting away from him and draping a blanket over him before heading off to the bedroom he'd offered to her, settling down to read and pass the night away. Best to feign having slept, she supposes. And maybe also best if she isn't around when he wakes up… she doesn't want to intrude too much on his personal space.

It's a suspicion that she thinks she's right about— he doesn't talk about having fallen asleep in her arms. It's an unspoken line that he's not willing to cross yet, she supposes.

A few days later, and everything begins to fall apart. It's something Clara should have predicted; she'd been getting too close, after all. She really shouldn't be surprised that her lies are catching up to her.

She's not proud of herself. Her head aches, a dull, throbbing sensation she's grown unfamiliar with, though it's fading rapidly… much faster than she'd expected. Placebo effect? She's not sure how much of an impact the whole _frozen between heartbeats_ thing has on head injuries.

Mostly, though… her pride's wounded. And she's growing increasingly alarmed at his insistent need that he ought to scan her, to check that nothing's wrong, despite her insistence that she's _fine,_ that it wasn't a bad fall, that she feels perfectly normal.

"You hit your head on a rock, Clara!" He's exasperated, brows knitting together with worry. "I'm honestly surprised you're not bleeding."

"Then I clearly didn't hurt myself!" At least she's not bruised. Perks of her body being frozen. "I told you, I'm _fine._ "

"I'm not taking the risk of you having a concussion."

" _Fine._ Can't stop you from keeping an eye on me, I guess. Even though nothing's gonna happen."

Though he's got a look in his eyes that says otherwise, that he's not convinced. Fair enough. She wouldn't be if she were in his situation, either.

"Peace of mind, Clara. It'll barely take a minute, then I'll leave you alone."

He's won. He's not going to back down on this anytime soon, and she knows it. Begrudgingly, she agrees; bracing herself for the worst. Though by some miracle (or perhaps the TARDIS is protecting him), the worst doesn't happen.

"You're human," he says, after a moment of stunned silence. He's staring at her, while her eyes flick over the screen, shoulders relaxing in relief. Just human, to him. She's saved the problem of trying to explain why she doesn't have a pulse. Or any functioning organs, for that matter.

"Mhm."

"How did you get a TARDIS?"

"An old friend gave it to me."

"You said you were two centuries old?"

"Okay, I may have been exaggerating."

"How old are you? Because we both know being in a TARDIS doesn't slow down your aging _that_ much."

Shit. "I don't know." Technically not a lie. She's getting good at living a life of half truths. "I thought I was being funny. And I guess I didn't want you to think less of me for being a human."

Okay, so that's a lie. But he seems to buy it, much to her relief.

"Oh Clara, why would I think that? Do you not think it's impressive that you're flying a spaceship that's far more advanced than anything your species has?"

"Thanks." She's smiling now, trying not to think about the way her heart hurts from how hushed with pride his voice sounds. _If only he knew._ "You're too kind."

—

Oh, Clara Oswald continues to be a mystery to him; though he's _definitely_ smug that he'd picked up human vibes from her. Him picking up vibes, after all - or rather, vibes that aren't the 'there's danger/conspiracy somewhere here' kind - is practically unheard of.

But he's not buying the excuses. She's a good liar, he'll give her that, but he's been alive long enough to see through even the best crafted lies, especially when he's actually paying attention. And, as much as he hates to admit it… she's had his undivided attention. He thinks he's got her figured out, suspects that she'll just close off to him even further if he pries too much, so he's forced the tidal wave of questions away, shelved away to deal with later, when he's alone and can trawl through the TARDIS' data-banks and archives for whatever tiny scraps of information about her that he can find.

He finds out later that getting enough time alone is easier said than done. For a human, Clara really doesn't sleep much. Though he starts to wonder if she's doing it as a silent protest of sorts; every time he asks why she isn't sleeping or suggests that she go sleep, she's immediately firing his own questions back at him. Touché.

Not that he finds anything, when he eventually gets the chance to look. In fact, he'd say he'd come up with suspiciously little information about her if it weren't for how well he knows his own TARDIS. Oh, searching for her just leaves him with more questions and no answers. The question on his mind now— _why is his own ship hiding the answers from him?_


	7. Chapter 7

It's 1953, and the diner's settled in a grassy field in… the middle of nowhere. Somewhere in Arizona, she thinks. She always defaults back to places like this when she needs a break from the world - and 1950s America has always been a no fuss, TARDIS blends in with the place sort of place. Nobody around for miles, just fields stretching all the way to the horizon. Clara's perched on the doorstep, a blanket hugged around her shoulders, watching as the sunset creeps its way across the sky. She's still there as the birdsong dies down and the crickets start to chirp, as the sunset makes way to an endless expanse of stars.

"Clara?"

She turns, sidling over as Ashildr settles down next to her, smiling softly.

"You alright?"

"Mhm."

"Want to talk about it?"

There's no point lying, she supposes - Ashildr knows her too well now for that. She groans, head falling into her hands, and they sit there, Ashildr patiently awaiting an answer.

"I'm in too deep."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"And I keep side stepping around the truth, and I've dug a hole I don't know how to get out of…" She sighs, teeth worrying at her lip. "He's going to find out, sooner or later. And what then? What if he remembers? What then?"

"Breathe, Clara." She slips an arm around her, head resting against Clara's shoulder. "It'll be okay. You two are always gonna work out, in the end."

"I thought you didn't approve," Clara murmurs, looking over at the other girl, her brow raising.

"Mm. But we both know you're not going to stop."

"You know me too well."

"Besides, you've lived so long. It'd be a pity to live for thousands of years and never get to spend them with the person you love."

"So, you've changed your mind?"

"Suppose I have." She laughs softly, but Clara can still see that doubt and worry haunting her expression. Curse of living so long; every new beginning is just a path leading to another end. And Clara and the Doctor… they've never been good at endings. "Just… be careful."

—

The gaps between their meetings becomes shorter and shorter - not that he minds. He's been travelling alone for too long, and she's so shiny-eyed and full of mischief and life. He always forgets how much he needs company when he's all on his own, until someone comes into his life and he remembers: oh, _this_ is what living feels like.

They're in a lounge on Arcadia - it's a Wednesday, because for some unfathomable reason he's decided that Wednesdays feel like Clara days. She's drinking a sparkling lilac wine and he's sipping his iced tea, lips twitching in amusement as her hand sneaks forward to steal yet another chip from the plate in front of him.

"Humans never really change, do they?" she remarks, popping the chip into her mouth, gaze wandering, distracted by the sights outside.

"Oh? Have you always been chip thieves?"

She laughs, peeking over at him again. "No— I meant this. Bars with fancy cocktails, fashion that looks like the 1980s meets sci-fi."

"Feels like home?"

"Hm… not really. But these days, Earth doesn't feel like home, either."

"You don't have family back on Earth?"

"Not anymore." A white lie, she supposes… back on Earth, she's already dead. There's only so long you can get away with hanging around before people notice you aren't ageing, after all.

"I know the feeling," he murmurs, and he's quiet a moment before he's off again, rattling on about his list of Top 10 Unappreciated Spots on Arcadia to visit in a not so subtle attempt to steer the conversation in a different direction - which thankfully, she goes along with.

They retire back to the TARDIS, habitually heading to the usual couch in his library. She's finding her book from the last visit and settling down, whilst he's wandering through the aisles, humming to himself as he searches for a book to read. Same old melody, the one that seems to drift back to him when she's around. _I think it's called Clara,_ he'd said once; though he's still not sure where he first picked up the melody.

He gives up, moving to settle down on the couch with Clara, grumbling as she sprawls out, propping her feet up on his leg - though how can he stay mad at such a sweet smile? She's got him wrapped around her finger, and she knows it.

Some time later, he dozes off like that; because next thing he knows, he's waking to the warmth of her body settled against his. He mumbles softly, eyes opening. Her book is still open on her lap, one hand leafing through it, the other absentmindedly playing with his hair.

"Sorry." Her cheeks tint pink as she pulls back, looking up from her book.

"No- no, it's okay." A yawn, followed by a smile. "Didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

"It's okay," she smiles, nudging him gently. "Go. Get some sleep"

"Yes boss."

"Oh, I'm the boss now?" She's grinning now - the infectious kind, his own lips spreading into a smile.

"Just this once."


End file.
